The Domestic
by DragonLadyhere
Summary: I've been fascinated with BBC's Sherlock and I've also been interested in the notion of Johnlock and wondered what that might start out like. Here we have Sherlock getting rather concerned about John's domestic tendencies. This started out very small and may stay as a one shot, but I was encouraged to keep writing.


February 6, 2015 By Johanna Jaye (Jimenez)

The Domestic

This is a one shot where Sherlock realizes he's been getting rather domestic with John and isn't exactly happy about it, not because he doesn't care for John-of course he does, but he doesn't want the distraction. Or is that the trouble, _because he does_? Just to note, I am totally guessing at how the Elliots were murdered. (Not sure I wanted to go and research online how to murder people yet.) And no, I don't know rightly where Mary went off to. Yet.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson trudged up the stairs at 2:36 in the morning after finally helping to solve London's most recent double murder. Lestrade was relieved to have this latest case all wrapped up in spite of yelling that it was "not my division!" Anderson and Donovan were not quite as happy because that meant Sherlock had gotten involved in yet another case. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Elliot were popular fixtures in London when the media outlets first began hailing the deaths of the wealthy but generous couple as dying together in a "final testament to long and abiding love". _That_ got Sherlock's attention.

Pure and utter codswallop!

Sherlock only took the case to disavow them all of that absolute twaddle. He supposed too, there was the fact that he'd not had a decent case for two weeks, five days, seven hours, and thirty six minutes. (counting the seconds was tedious at this point even if he was bored.) He tired rather early on of the experiments ever ongoing in the kitchen, and lately he could predict most of the outcomes with stunning regularity; well, except for that last one with the exploding hand. Might have to rethink that one. Utter boredom was a valid reason to do marvelous things to entertain himself and Sherlock never hesitated when his brain was in danger of deteriorating whenever boredom ensued, nor did he play by any sort of rules.

However, picking fingers and nail bits (among other things) up from the kitchen floor along with the two digits lodged behind the toaster left John in somewhat of a grumpy state. Now with Sherlock adding a pupil to Smiley Face with a bullet fired in a single shot the precise moment John brought a cup of tea to his lips, well John was closer to being on the edge of murder than merely grumpy. Mrs. Hudson wasn't all that happy about it as well. It had sent her flurrying back downstairs. She didn't even bother with her usual "Not your housekeeper!" on the way down.

Sherlock thought back on the two pale bodies neatly laid out in their bed covered with freshly washed sheets wearing starched pajamas looking to all the world as if they'd only drifted off together into. Well,_ except_ for the little tell-tale wound of a minuscule hole he'd found at the base of their skulls just under the thin, silver hairlines. After of being drugged to death, they'd had the rotten misfortune of having one of Harriet Elliot's knitting needles run straight up their noses and their brains swizzled. John confirmed it, but wondered aloud how Sherlock arrived at that conclusion based on a slightly bent knitting needle still tucked neatly in her last knitting project, the later being a gold sweater and most likely for her son. There wasn't a drop of blood, a single bruise, or any brain matter to be found anywhere. Housekeepers were a fastidious lot apparently.

Sherlock detested overkill, it was so gauche. Dead was dead, but when people engaged in overkill the way this brazen couple had, it said volumes about who they were and what kind of egos were at work. He was certain they laughed through it all.

With Sherlock's pronouncement of murder being the real cause of the couple's death, the media would do an about face and ravenously feed off the brutal murders for the next two days, if even that. Anderson insisted their only son did it, he etched out his ludicrous 'theory' and waved the various wills and insurance documents around as his proof-and did so overly loud as per his usual. Sherlock tried to erase the man's shrill voice out of his head by demanding equally as loudly that he might take a rough and long tumble down the marble stairs just off the crime scene. Shame Anderson didn't readily take him up on that.

Of course; it was clearly the butler-with the housekeeper's help. It was obvious. They'd been acting as a serial killer duo extraordinaire (this wasn't their first time) and had siphoned off a good hunk of the couple's amassed fortune, slowly whittled it down of course as not to raise suspicions. They'd worked right from the start to gain the couple's trust all while painting their only son as a villain; hence the so-called 'documents' found in his possession. Clearly forged and planted of course. Greed made them clumsy in the end, and the son caught on (but not soon enough) which only painted the proverbial bull's eye on his back.

Thirty two hours after the bodies had been discovered, it got rather hairy when Sherlock and John arrived just as the criminal duo were attempting to blow Charlie Elliot's brains out all over the walls of his father's study in a crude effort to make it appear as if he was so riddled with guilt, he'd chose to commit suicide. Idiots! Sherlock was furious and boldly grabbed the gun after dodging the first shot and just as it went off the second time. John crashed solidly into the man tied to the chair in the meantime. This sent them both toppling out of harm's way, but then John sustained a knot on the head when the housekeeper bonked him on the head with a chair leg. Sherlock put her in a chokehold. It took John five whole minutes of brushing at his hair to get all the splintered wood bits out. He also made clear mention of the fact that the second bullet zinged perilously close to his left ear.

Now back in the comfortable confines of 221B Baker Street, John was insisting on putting on the kettle at this late hour as he always seemed to require a good cup of tea anytime he could get one, but Sherlock really only wanted a quick smoke and sleep for once. He really wasn't in the mood to hunt for all the cigarettes John kept hiding away either, because John was getting rather good at hiding them. Sherlock blew up when John expressed that he at least get some quantity of food in him after pointing out he'd not eaten since yesterday's breakfast, but John was used to his fire and ire now and only threatened that a tube-feeding would be in short order if Sherlock kept up his insane pace-and he would be most happy to see that he got one shoved in too.

All this only led to a somewhat heated debate (once again) about John's domestic tendencies quite possibly (and most likely) stemming from something else altogether different and Sherlock accused him of not wanting to face it. It had become an ongoing discussion between the consulting detective and his Watson for two weeks now with Sherlock pushing it more than anybody had a right to. Sherlock verbally noted his hovering was a touch more pronounced lately, and John insisted it was because he was afraid Sherlock would jump off a building again even though it had been several months since he'd returned obviously whole and intact. Trauma and all that bit.

"Again, _not gay_, Sherlock." said John with an impatient sigh. "Bloody hell. It's just tea! In case you hadn't noticed, you know, I am a doctor! I look out for people and that includes you-especially you. Do we really have to keep doing this? Now?"

"Yes. You are making tea after all, might as well pick up our talk." said Sherlock with a small shrug of his shoulders as he tossed his keys on a small table. He was well-aware he was baiting John and he enjoyed every second of it. He tended to do it even more when he was tired, but that was moot really. He wasn't sure why John's recalcitrance bothered him-not yet anyway, but he would work it out. John was almost like a personal Rubik's cube and he rather liked twisting all the sides and colors of John. Sometimes he clicked all into place quite nicely, and other times he refused to line up in any sensible order-which made Sherlock want to twist him around just a little more. "It doesn't serve to hide from the matter, now does it?"

"I'm not hiding from anything."

"You're always hiding something, John and I'll always find it."

"Look, I'll own that when you jumped off Bart's, it did something to me. I mean, Christ, I _saw _you fall. I _saw_ your body. Jesus, but I'll never forget it Sherlock!"

Sherlock noted that John's eyes got distinctly watery. He mentally filed away that John was still 'dealing' with his leap from the top of St. Bart's. He regretted that, but it couldn't be helped then, and it would do no good now to keep expressing that.

"Then you came back, just out of the blue one day." John rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was knackered and thought a cup of tea and some serious sleep was not too much to ask. He lost count of how many hours of sleep they'd missed in the past few days. "And yeah, I do try to hide things from you sometimes, of course I do-mostly for my own sanity mind you."

"You are currently living with a high-functioning sociopath. I should think that flies against the sanity thing."

"A man has to have some secrets you know, even secrets he doesn't understand. I'll work it out. It doesn't mean I'm going to jump on you because you say I have these feelings. Christ Sherlock! I do know how to control myself!"

John had no logic to him sometimes.

Sherlock was well aware John knew how to control himself in any number of situations and he respected him greatly for that. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen anyone come close to rivaling him in control. Of course Sherlock knew how John felt about him. Anybody could see it, except for John apparently. People seemed to rather cheer the notion of them being a couple of sorts, none more than Mrs. Hudson it seemed. Yet he rarely cared one wit what people thought. There were very few exceptions to that. Opinions were cheap. However, he cared a great deal for John and had simply owned up to it a long time ago. While he kept all 'feelings' tightly reined in in general, he realized it was even more so where John was concerned. Feelings only clouded perfectly good and rational sense. Sherlock was well aware that he would probably take the man completely over as was his usual way with people if he chose to act on anything. Didn't seem right to do with John, but he was sorely tempted some days just to run him over. Instead, he kept him firmly locked away in his head. He could usually just shut that particular door and move on to wherever he needed to go. Usually.

John was the first person who didn't immediately resort to calling him "freak". No, John told him that he was "extraordinary" instead and he meant it. Yet John was clearly uncomfortable with the notion of even being remotely considered bisexual or even full-on homosexual. Still, there it was and he was wearing it just as sure as he wore one of his jumpers.

Sherlock never really questioned his own sexuality, it was what it was and he was quite comfortable with it. There was never any debate in his mind over the matter nor did he ever feel the need to 'soul search' about it. He didn't understand the angst people always seemed to have about natural human sexuality, nor their strange preoccupation with everybody else's. While he didn't particularly like or dislike women in general, he wasn't ever truly comfortable around most of them. To him, they were not much more than a thousand different flickering personalities and aspects locked into a single body dictated by nothing more than hormones. With all the hormones they all had coursing through their bodies, how could you ever trust such a creature to make any sense? They played rather well in the realm of emotions and this was not an area he enjoyed playing in. He rather liked sense after all. John had plenty of sense. There was something solid about John.

Sherlock could certainly well-play all the parts he so keenly observed in people when it suited his needs or insatiable curiosity and that sometimes included sex; it could after all, be a potent tool on occasion and he had no problem using it. He was a master at it really, having often experimented with it in a myriad of ways, but it was ultimately just another tool. Not that he was running around all of London looking for sexual encounters-he always planned those out anyway, but it was all always elementary. He always got whatever it was he was looking for: whether it was a simple question of what worked or didn't work in a particular technique, or purely as a means to seduce the tiniest bit of information out of a pliant body. He supposed that always ultimately made him the aggressor really, but it never bothered him. He preferred it that way. A nibble there, a touch here, and a well-placed stroke got more secrets out of kings and queens than all the king's horses and all the king's men. Ordinary people never stood a chance, now did they? Didn't people use it as such anyway? To gain secrets out of one another? To tease and nip away all the walls long held in place?

A take-over using friendly fire.

Sherlock yanked off his fancy blue scarf in that agitated way he often had, as if it suddenly got too close in and barred the doors to his mind palace, so come off it must. No mercy was shown to the thing as he flung it off where it landed lightly-on Skull this go around, but he paid it no mind. John watched him intently wondering what was going to come out of him next. A random thought popped up in John's head; he thought Sherlock ought to take better care of his things, but then he was always at war between home and adventures with Sherlock. Once in war, always in war one way he supposed, even about little things. Perhaps because they mattered most, but things like wayward scarves were tiny matters really. Sherlock whirled around to face John and stalked back to stand a breath away towering over John. Clearly Sherlock was never a small matter.

"Here's the thing, John. I don't do domesticity! Tea and crumpets and hours in front of the telly growing fat while my brain rots into oblivion. I cannot do it, not even for you."

"H-how did you come to tha-? Never mind. I know all that, 'course I do and you know? Funny thing though, I don't recall ever asking. Bloody hell! Again, it's just tea, Sherlock." he said as he rubbed his eyes again, furiously this time, as if to rub the long with-held sleep right back into them. He sighed. "Yeah, look, I wouldn't have things any different, Sherlock. _Nothing_ changes just because I _might_ feel something for you-whatever that is. _Nothing changes_. I'll take everything like I always do, just as it comes." Yet even as he spoke, he took a small step back only to find his back up against the cold wall. He wasn't afraid exactly, but having Sherlock's angry face an inch from his own was more intimidating than he'd reckoned on. Sherlock on any given day was wholly overwhelming, but when he was angry; you could get trampled and he wouldn't even notice.

"Change comes to everything John, it is the one constant."

"You seem to think you know how I feel, so why in _hell_ are you so angry now?"

Their friendship would always be something to be used against them both. Hadn't Moriarty proved that? Magnussen? But what _would_ happen if he were to take it to a sexual level? Sherlock went back to his stalking, this while he tore off his Belstaff coat. He whirled around again as he flung it on the couch, but it was heavy enough that it slid down to the floor in a dark fabric heap rather than stay cast haphazardly on the couch. He didn't care if it landed in the bottom of the Thames.

"Love is dangerous, John. I can't afford it. It's a distraction _always_." He stopped his stalking long enough to stare at John who remained rather unmovable. "I don't like distractions, John."

"Yeah, I get that and I'm not going to be one." John stepped away from the wall. He paused in the sitting room facing angry Sherlock-albeit from a safe distance when he was suddenly struck by a single realization:

_ Sherlock said the word "love". _

"Hang on now. I'm already in there, aren't I?" John stepped a little closer, now feeling a little bold with a brand new revelation. He only half-smiled because that was all he could muster, but his eyes lit up at the thought of realizing something _before_ Sherlock did for once. He shook his head and wagged a finger. "Oh! Hang on, I've got a whole room in your mind palace somewhere, don't I? That's why you're all discombobulated, isn't it?"

Sherlock was indeed momentarily flummoxed and began to shake his head in a vehement "NO!" Instead he froze in place and stared at John, who by the way, could see the wheels in the man's head practically grind to a screeching halt. He thought Sherlock's brain was going to need an innumerable number of plasters with all of that business crashing around in his skull. It felt like a rare thing to give the eminent Sherlock Holmes something to think about. Words refused to assemble themselves in any coherent fashion and this pissed Sherlock off considerably. He was so rarely at a loss for words and he never handled it with much grace. He began to stalk away for more angry pacing, but whirled around and stared back at him again as if trying to dissect him just with his eyes.

"Oh-ho, that's it, isn't it? I'm right, aren't I Sherlock?" said John as he dug in his heels and pointed above Sherlock's head as if there were an actual palace perched on the taller man's raven black curly-haired head. "I'm _in there _somewhere and _you_ don't think you like it."

Sherlock shook his head as if to shake cobwebs-and rather hoped John would also come tumbling out right about now. Close relationships had always been complicated to him, from his parents down to his blasted brother, but John made it simple. Briefly looking back to the days of his youth, he immediately discounted anybody from his school days as 'close'. He'd simply been too intelligent for the lot of them-both would-be tutors and students alike. They didn't register as "complicated", only typical. This wasn't ego at work in his mind, just simple fact; although "freak" still got in sometimes.

Sherlock worked on such a high level of pure logic and scientific truths because for one, he was brilliant, and for the other, those were _real _to him. You could pick things completely apart on the level of logic, twirl them all around, and look at it from every angle and see things that others just didn't even if the things you were picking apart were people-_especially_ people. He could deduce them all down to tears and not even flinch. Ah, but people seldom appreciated being picked apart even with his keen observation skills. They intensely disliked being deduced, and hated it even more if tears were involved apparently. He didn't really understand how that worked because if those who claimed to know him on any level at all, well, then they should clearly _know _him better. He often refused to get drawn into _anybody_ on a personal level and it drove Mycroft nuts-which always made it worthwhile. He conceded that his antisocial tendencies distressed his mother on occasion, but what was he to do about that? Let Mycroft be the doting son-at least in appearances anyway. He was good at those.

However, John _got in _somehow. That little bastard actually got inside his head somehow, and if he thought on it long enough, he supposed John had gotten into the heart-wherever he'd filed that off to. He'd been told so many times that he didn't have one, he had come to believe it. Yet John did indeed occupy whole parts of his mind palace, and was fast becoming the electricity that ran it. No, he didn't like that at all. If that was love, well, then love was an infection. Sherlock sighed.

_ He'll be a distraction, Sherlock. _

His chosen (desperately needed) line of work as 'consulting detective' was the only one challenging enough thus far that kept the demons at bay. Yet it held enough distractions to his mind that posed a challenge on occasion as well. He had long since dealt with this and knew how to easily keep the riff-raff out of his head so he could focus; and focus was imperative, especially on an exquisite murder case. But when he couldn't keep out the incessant buzzing noise of the ordinary, there was always the violin. And cocaine. There was always that. Sometimes he just preferred cocaine because it never asked for anything, it just _gave. _It was a complete lie of course, but he got a precious but brief respite from all the noise within his mind while heightening other senses, which sometimes gave him the ability to see something he was missing. He was not a man who liked to miss anything. While he could feel the sting of Molly's sound smacking to his face every time he thought about taking up the needle again, he never held out hope that it would ever stop him from picking it up again. Yet here John was now, firmly entrenched in his brain as if he'd marched there and he refused to be filed away. Today might be a good day to take up the cocaine again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and blinked. His mind refocused at mind-altering speeds and John never tired of watching it at work. "You don't want to see me on that level, John. I'd take you completely over because I never do anything half-measure. I _always_ win, John.

John shifted his weight impatiently now that Sherlock's mind seemed riveted wholly on him once again. He shook his head before meeting Sherlock's eyes, he wasn't sure what he meant by that last bit. "I'm not in some kind of competition for affection from you, and I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I don't scare easily. You know that, so if you're trying to scare me off, it won't work. I've been with you through the thick of it, haven't I now? That counts for something. I'm staying. You need someone to patch you up and keep you off of high buildings anyway."

Sherlock wasn't amused by John's small attempt at levity. He stood there and glared briefly at John a little more, but, then he got a decidedly wicked look on his face. The wheels were turning in full force again and John took a small step back. Sherlock grinned much like the Grinch who came to steal Christmas away and some kind of twisted rationale lit up his eyes. "I don't scare you, John? Oh my John, are you sure about that?" he inquired as he sauntered back towards John. He might have even hopped and skipped a little. One could rarely tell, because Sherlock didn't ever seem to move like most men, he often seemed to just appear some days. "My good man, but you should be."

The quick change in Sherlock's attitude unsettled John and rather a lot. He should have been used to it by now, because he saw Sherlock do that kind of trick with alarming regularity on anybody and everybody. He'd seen him do that with witnesses, suspects, Molly, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson-especially Anderson. Rarely did Sherlock ever direct that particular talent at him-and certainly not ever with Mycroft. John was not a man to back down from anybody, but he awkwardly cleared his throat and tried to ignore the knot of churlish fear now quivering in his stomach. "N-no, uh, no Sherlock. You don't scare me, Sherlock. You-you're my best friend. My only friend really. Um, now Sh-Sherlock . . ."

Sherlock was once again standing in front of John who briefly looked down rather than meeting those eyes imperiously inquisitive eyes now dancing with some kind of new delight. He hastily backed into the wall again and idly mused that he might just put a dent in the thing one day. Perhaps Sherlock would start shooting at that as well. John raised his hands up to either placate Sherlock or hold him off. He wasn't sure which, but he was once again feeling rather like a mouse huddling in front of a large cat in that precise moment. John didn't like that feeling, one often felt that way with Sherlock, but the man was taking this up to a whole new level. Whatever 'this' was.

"Really?" Sherlock stared down into his eyes with a strange gleam bouncing around in their depths. He slowly pressed in even closer until the entire length of his tall body pressed hard up against John. "How about now, John?"

"Yeah, uh, okay Sherlock. Okay! Just-just back up a bit, will you?" John found his nose wedged in Sherlock's left collarbone and his hands were now mashed between the two of them. He could see the pulse ebb and flow in Sherlock's neck. His chest heaved, but Sherlock was immutable. It was a solid wall of pure Sherlock; he smelled of early evening tea, soap from his morning bath still, leather from his gloves, and a hint of cigarettes. The rest was _all_ Sherlock.

_ Only_ Sherlock.

Sherlock leisurely caught John's hands up in his long and lean hands as if he had all night and oh-so-slowly dragged his arms up above his head with a surprising strength. John's tan jumper was suddenly quite warm and rather itchy; he only mildly protested having his arms dragged off because frankly, uncertainty reigned supreme in his head right then. Perhaps along with a hefty dose of curiosity being mixed in there somewhere too. Even so, he didn't believe Sherlock would do more than try to intimidate him.

It was working.

"Yeah, uh, wh-what are you doing? Sherlock?"

Sherlock responded only by pinning John's hands to the wall in which John seemed to forever find himself attached to. Old disciplined soldier or not, he could only stare up at him for some morbid reason with his mouth hanging wide open. When dealing with Sherlock, you never knew quite what you were going to get, but this was getting rather obvious now. Yet, in that moment and somewhat to his dismay, John found that he wasn't all that certain he wanted Sherlock to stop. He tried briefly to wriggle his hands from under Sherlock's grip as if to pull them away, but found the mind palace-king's hands firmly wrapped around his wrists with a sinewy strength that belied the elegance of those long fingers. It didn't really matter because it seemed John's hands only felt the inclination to hold on for dear life instead.

Useless things hands were apparently-at least in his case.

Still, John was still shocked when Sherlock -with eyes wide open slowly bent his head down to first ever-so-lightly brush John's lips with his own. He lightly nipped John's lower lip. Then, he kissed him, still with eyes wide open.

Solidly.

Deeply.

Thoroughly.

All thought scattered from John's brain like sand in a windstorm. Instead of trampling John with his usual razor sharp logic, he wholly took him over just with his mouth alone-and it was much too easy for him it seemed. He didn't ask, he simply took. Without effort, Sherlock's delicious mouth covered John's completely and roved ceaselessly over his lips. His tongue slowly yet insistently parted John's lips like a languorous battering ram. It slipped through in a rush where it roamed freely. It filled John's mouth with hot, pulsing heat; stroking his palate, gliding over his teeth, exploring over and under his tongue twisting exquisitely all about. There wasn't a single place it didn't search out as it teased and touched. His knees went all quivery, but Sherlock only brazenly pressed a lean-muscled thigh firmly between his legs to brace him back up. He also tightened his hold on John's wrists. All still with eyes wide open.

John _never_ had quivery knees in all his life.

And John certainly wasn't a man given to notions of toes curling either- unless in pain like when he'd been shot, but tonight, his toes definitely curled. He also _did not _moan, but some kind of strange noise came from the general region of his throat and sounded an awful lot like one.

John felt a thousand tiny sparks leaping off from deep inside his belly and was fairly certain at some point his heart flopped on its side somehow like a freshly caught fish flopping around desperately trying to get oxygen in its newfound airless environment. Ever and always the physician, he knew from somewhere (from very far away now) that the flopping of a human heart was a definite impossibility, but still; the power of it all threatened to lay him out completely. The power of Sherlock.

Sherlock ended the fiery kiss abruptly and released John's hands. He stepped back with a strange glint in his eye and silently moved away only by a fraction. John could feel the hot breath emanating from Sherlock's flaring nostrils down onto his face, but Sherlock seemed quite unaffected by his actions. There was not a hair out of place, not a bead of perspiration, or a wrinkle to be seen anywhere in his clothing; he was studying John keenly. He stepped back a little further as if to give John some room to recover. The haughty bugger was well-aware that 'recovery' was indeed needed. John felt quite rumpled and as if he'd been caught up unawares in a sudden storm. It wouldn't be the first time. He was shaken to the core and he had to admit it was not from anger, or even confusion anymore, but something else altogether. He couldn't speak a single word either. John slid down the wall a little as his knees turned to traitorous little things and decided they once again no longer wanted to act like proper knees should.

Sherlock's odd anger only seemed mildly abated. John however, was more concerned about catching his breath which had oddly run off wherever breathing goes when kissed by Sherlock apparently. He realized he very likely had been holding his breath a good part of the time and hadn't noticed. In a daze, he glanced down at his fingernails through glazed-over eyes to check for the blue tinge signifying oxygen impairment. He shook his head and blushed to also note his hard erection.

Plenty of oxygen then. Right.

"I never do _anything_ half-measure, John. Never." Sherlock bounded away from him without another word, grabbed up his coat, found his scarf and waltzed out the door and down the stairs and out into the dark city streets.

John simply bent over and braced his hands on his shaking knees still breathing rather hard. He thought perhaps he'd just gotten totally mind-fucked. And, he _liked_ it. "God almighty Sherlock, but you did warn me, didn't you?!" he muttered to himself. "Jesus."

It was sometime later when John found himself still standing in front of a kettle furiously boiling away. He was startled by its high-pitched whistling and he had no memory of putting it on. Perhaps it simply appeared all hot and boiling like that. He was still reeling and that feeling in his belly hadn't subsided yet. He wasn't certain of all that happened and everything seemed to be crashing together in his head. His thoughts were a jumbled mess as was often the case these days, because living with Sherlock always involved a high degree of chaos, but this was out of the ballpark. He had no idea Sherlock was . .. _so_ schooled in the physical realm. And yet, after a length of time had gone by, he suddenly remembered something.

Something rather telling.

Sherlock had not been as unaffected as he'd seemed. John remembered. _Sherlock's hands trembled._ It was just after he'd ended that insane kiss, but Sherlock's hands definitely trembled. In the heat of it all, John remembered that bit. He smiled to himself and made his cuppa- with extra sugar.

END


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